The Prophet, Prophesising
by Gater101
Summary: Of course he leaves again; it's what he does.


Title: The Prophet, Prophesising  
Summary: Of course he leaves again; it's what he does.  
Characters: Hermione, Harry  
Pairing: Hermione/Harry  
Rating: M  
Notes: Future fic. 'The Pitch' is the name of Harry & Ginny's house, as named in the fan fiction 'The Keeper'

The room is dark save for the glow of a few well-placed candles. Outside, the street lights dim one by one until there is not a hint of shadow on the streets outside – in the black void created by the absence of light, there is no place for something so bright as grey. The window in front of her fogs up under her warm breath as she peers into the inky vastness beyond; that itself, the only indication that she is not the only magical entity on the street.

There is an almost silent pop behind her and then the warmth of a body pressing against her back. His hand is on her hip and she can feel his breath stir stray curls at the top of her head before his lips are at the juncture behind her ear. Her breath leaves her in one fell swoop when she feels the pads of his fingers dance against her clavicle before following the line of her scapula out to her shoulder, dipping under the collar of the unbuttoned shirt she wore, then down her arm leaving a trail of fiery gooseflesh in his wake. The soft wisp of fabric against the raised dots of skin is almost painful, like the need already cresting in the pit of her stomach. He steps back and the shirt falls to the floor and she's left naked, standing in the window of a house on a non-descript street as Harry fucking Potter plays with her body.

The Daily Prophet printed another story about them today.

Harry likes to mark the event by doing exactly what it is they say they have done in the gossip rag and she smirks, taunting him with a raised eyebrow. The Daily Prophet does not so much _report _as prophesise. Hermione is sure that if the Prophet _hadn't _printed that first story about them (their debauched affair that, at the time, didn't exist) this wouldn't be happening. The first time, they'd vowed it would be the only time. Then the Prophet printed the piece about them sneaking off to a private room in Hogwarts at the last charity ball (a fabrication, of course) and at the next ball (not held at Hogwarts but the Prophet was still in attendance) Harry _did _drag her off to a private room and fuck her senseless against the door. There was no article in the Prophet about it.

And so the pattern began, justified by each of them as _everyone thought they were doing it anyway, so they may as well._

Neither wanted to admit to the flaw in their logic.

Especially not when what they were doing felt as good as it did. Like the way Harry's fingers could pluck at her nipples as though she were a violin, drawing from her the most orchestral sounds. Or the way he moaned her name when she slipped her hand behind her and between their bodies, rubbing at him through the fabric of his trousers.

The latest was that they had set up home in a residential Muggle area.

It stood to reason then that Harry, using the money left to him by various predecessors, bought them such a house in the suburbs of Essex, far away from The Pitch, the Burrow and The Hub.

He pushed her against the window, her upper body flush with the cool glass and she felt her painfully hard nipples scratch against the glass, sending liquid warmth straight to where Harry was tracing delicate patterns on her most sensitive skin. He stepped back, commanding her to stay where she was and she complied and when he returned, she felt his skin contact hers the dichotomy of hot and cold and Harry and Harry, Harry, Harry...

He held her against the window with an arm across the back of her shoulders, one arm around her waist to bend her to his will. His fingers dug into her skin and her own squeaked against the glass as she tried to find grip on something – _anything _– to help ground her. His pace was fast and relentless, their moans of delirium echoing off the barren walls around them amplifying the feel, the touch, the sound. He bit her shoulder and she cried out, one hand flying behind her to grip Harry's hip as he pounded into her, his cock finding that place inside of her that made her gasp for breath before she felt his warmth spill inside of her.

He rested his sweat soaked forehead against her back, his breaths warm and moist against her cooling skin. His lips tickled her shoulder blade, his hand holding her to the window loosening to wrap around her front and pull her flush against his body, his other hand splayed intimately across her hip.

They sunk to the floor, Harry slipping out of her as he softened and she rested her head back against his shoulder. He kissed her jaw, her neck but never her lips – those he touched with fingers that tasted like both of them and she shuddered as a ripple of pleasure scorched through her.

Long minutes – possibly hours – later he pulled away from her and she shivered at the loss of contact. When he was clothed, he held her shirt for her as she slipped her arms into it and he turned her to him with a hand on her shoulder. He smiled down to her, his green eyes tumultuous and she smiled tentatively, ducking her head into his touch when he cradled her jaw. She closed her eyes and let out a slow breath, starting slightly when she felt it blow back to her. His lips touched hers and she parted them in surprise – they _never _kissed, it was part of the deal – but the kiss didn't deepen. He lingered there, his lips a hairsbreadth away from her own, their breaths mingling.

"I'll see you at work later," he murmured quietly, intimately and she nodded.

A faint pop and she was alone; of course, he leaves again. It's what he does.

Outside, the street lamps lighted once more, the only sign that she wasn't the only magical entity on the street.


End file.
